Peep.

Peep at me

But do it thoroughly.

Peep into my wounds

If you will, if you insist.

Prod and encompass.

Peep into my wounds,

Touch them none are drained.

They well-up, unclean.

Ironic really,

For one so unwell.

None of this is about drowning in a sea of sand either.

There is more to it.

You never see me when I sigh on a path,

Like a Simon walking.

Or waking dead when

I’m up to my heels in blood.

That’s when there is nothing to my brains.

I could sneeze TB onto your throne

It would be quite unintended,

I could inhale that mood of yours,

And I might feel tricked,

And my lung, may just have followed through.

Step closer and make it look good for yourself.

Then peep this time into my soul,

Decern my worthiness,

Weigh my contribution,

Colour in my complexity,

With your crayon or quill.

I don’t hardly matter.

O to be enriched

Or even consequential.

A little left over

Or more understood.

Peep now deeply

Into my hollow.

Would you try it on for size?

As you cattle prod emotions

And shade my character.

Oh you of listed erudition,

You have closed my box

Not ticked it.

You who know little of the scale of life,

Can so easily and unwittingly end it.

 

©️2018 Christopher Thompson